The Adventures Of Bettie Beowulf
by Cherrie Keane
Summary: Just another day in the life of Bettie Beowulf, heroin of Herot Records! Well...cashier of Herot records. Make that teenage burnout cashier of Herot records. Yeah, that fit nicely. Old fic for the LULZ, slight crossover between Beowulf and Empire Records


SOOOOO WHAT IS THIS?

What is WAS was an old English assignment. We had to take the story of Beowulf and put it in present times.

I recently re-found it in the back of my deviant art and re-read it. I actually liked it, even though its old and slightly badly written. So I decided to post it here, and share some laughs.

Yes, you may giggle at how stupid it is. Because it is INDEED stupid.

On a side note, NO I will NOT continue it, or write any other Beowulf fan fictions. Prolly ever. For the moment my heart (and creative muse) belongs to **static shock**, and believe me people, I have some ideas going DOWN for that. Worry not.

But until then, enjoy how RIDICULOUS this is.

* * *

Oh crap. I totally forgot. Cops. Crap, Crap, Crap!  
I could hear the sirens in the distance. I held out a tiny hope that he hadn't heard them, but of course, I was wrong. He looked just as the rest of the customers heads bobbled to the glass as well. One lit-up cop car came to a stop at the curb of the store, 2 officers ready to jerk the doors open the moment the car came to a stop. That's when he turned his head back to me. I couldn't read his expression for a moment, and then I saw it. Raw, pulsing hurt. The officers were walking towards the door now, reaching for the handle.  
In a quick and nervous movement, Gaven reached for the pockets of his hoodie, and before I knew it, metal, slightly heated from the warmth of his jacket, was pressed against my forehead.  
Just as the officers pushed the door open, I heard an ear splitting crack, just like a gunshot.

Alarm clocks have to be instruments invented by the devil. They have to be. What unholy monster could create a device evil enough to break hundreds of masses from their slumber? It should be against the law to have to wake up this early.  
But its not. So I clambered out of bed, pulled on a robe, and turned off my alarm clock before my hung-over mother hears it. Not as if she would care about me and what I do in the mornings, but it would give her and even bigger headache than what she's got ahead of her. 1 bottle of pink peach flavored Smirnoff and a case of mikes hard lemonade will do that to you. I suppose while she sleeps off the hangover, I should get ready for work. And introduce myself.  
What's up? My name is Beatrix Beowulf. Yes. I know. Worst name ever. I was very aware of that. But, just like you can't pick your parents or your skin color, you also can't pick your last name. Go figure. Just call me Bettie, alright? Surprisingly enough, Bettie Beowulf isn't as bad as Beatrix Beowulf.  
I'm 17 years of age, and about 5'7,160 lbs. A lot of girls obsess over their weight, but I'm not one for them. I learned a long time ago that it's not worth it. We all get fat and old eventually. I'm at least used to one of them already. I've got this shockingly red hair that makes me so easy to spot in a crowd. I have tried to dye it, but the bright mess of orange always fights back and wins. Its also a curly untamable mess. I've given up on that one too. Of course, like most gingers, I am cursed with freckles, but unlike most gingers, my skin is pretty tan. I like to refer to myself as 'Scotland meets Africa.' That's the story of my parents anyway.  
Anyway, I'm a senior at Lancaster high, home of the dragons. Not that I'm particularity happy about that, but there's no need not to have a little school spirit. Truth is, my school is full of Ivy League aspiring scholars. Everyone I know makes straight A's, has a million academic extra curricula's, and probably spends their free time helping seniors at the retirement center and reading books to the kids at the local orphanage or something. As much as I would love to say I fit into that category of people, I can't. I'm what you call a 'burn out' I think I've had senioritis since I was in the 5th grade. I barely pass any of my classes, college isn't even a word I recognize, and I've skipped so many days of school, sometimes when I come back I have to get a visitors pass. I'm not really Ivy League material.  
I suppose the only thing I am really good at is art. I'm a painter really, but in my spare time at Herot I like to sketch the people in the store. Well…maybe one more thing I am good at is my job. I work at a place called Herot Records. It's a little store on the edge of the bad part of town. My kind of place really.  
'Mom! I'm leaving!!' I called down the hall with my key in the door. She probably can only hear me in her sleep, but it will at least be somewhere in her memory when she wakes up to an empty house. Not that she's not used to it.  
I live in a small apartment with my mom. My dad left us when I was born. It's not so big of a deal really, I know lots of kids my age with only one parent. Honestly, I hardly miss the guy. My mom was a pretty great mom for the first couple of year in my life, but since I started high school, she's gone pretty downhill. I used to think that she was doing her best, and that the alcohol was just to help her out a few times a month. Then it became a few times a week. And then a few times a day. After the 4th consecutive time of picking her vodka rocked body from the floor after a night of drinking, I quickly realized that the AA was missing a member.  
I hear a horn honk right behind me as I stroll on the sidewalk, and I practically jump out of my skin.  
"HEY BETTIE!!" I recognize that voice anywhere.  
"What's up Zoey?" I say without even turning around. Zoey Lawrence. She works in Herot with me, Nick, and Warren. Her and Nick both go to a special high school, for delinquents. I know she's there for punching a pregnant girl in the face (though she swears she deserved it). I never actually figured out why nick goes there. Warren doesn't go to school. He's been a drop out for as long as I can remember.  
"How's it shakin' sweets! Heading to the old grind?" says Zoey pulling the car up and coming to a stop in the road. She's lucky we are in a residential area in the dark of morning. No ones out to stare just yet.  
She's got the face of a model (you know, If models had 4 ear piercings, a nose stud, and a tiny pink heart tattooed on their faces.). If she wasn't such a hardened criminal, I bet all the boys would go crazy for her. Not like most of them don't already, it's just that they would probably be public about it. She tossed her dyed white blonde hair back. Her pink highlights are starting to fade.  
"Yeah. Are you?" I reply.  
"Nope. I got my SAT today."  
"You TOO? Nicks got one today too."  
"Yeah, I'm on my way to his house now."  
"Zoey, you guys are juvenile delinquents. What business do you have taking an SAT? You probably don't even know what it stands for."  
"It stands for Standard Acceptance Tests, and even criminals get to take them. Some of us want to go to college. For you information, I'm planning on going to Quake Forrest University."  
Ugh. The dreaded 'C' word. What's so great about college anyway?  
"You got time to take me to work?" I ask, changing the subject. Zoey makes a face.  
"Sorry man, I have to go get Nick's really quick. I think well be late if I don't hurry."  
"No its cool. I need the….exercise." But just because I need it, doesn't mean I want it.  
"Alright. Check ya later!" she yells as she drives off.  
Yeah right.

I get to work exactly at 8:00am. Opening shop isn't too hard. Harold always arrives to work at 9. Harold Horothgar's my boss, owner of Herot. He's a pretty cool guy, for a dude in his 50s. He used to be a hippie in the sixties.  
So today, it's just me and Warren. Warren Wiglaf is 3 things; loud, funny, and completely homosexual. Why that's so relevant is because he's also cute, and as many girls who hit on him a day, he has to state the fact repeatedly. He's been my best and most loyal friend ever since I first came to Herot for the job. He's pretty cool.  
I work the cashier and answer the phones. I might be referred to as 'Beowulf: answerer of dumb questions over telecommunications devices and keeper of legal tender', but I mush prefer 'Bettie: maker of totally boss buttons and closet artist who's afraid of college because its big and scary.' Maybe not the last part, but the first big, for sure.  
Whenever I get a break, I go in the back and grab my button maker. It's a pretty huge piece of machinery (its about as big as in iron), but once I'm in the zone, I make some pretty awesome buttons. That's how I made all of Herot's employees name tags. When I am not doing that, I'm painting in the back. Harold likes to frame the stuff he likes and put it all around the store along with the record paraphernalia. Its kind of cool seeing my art next to the poster of the album cover for 'abbey road' and an ad for the 'the doors' is kind of cool.  
By the time Harold and Warren roll around at 9, I've got the coffee made and the store ready for opening, just like I do every Saturday morning.  
"Heeeeeeey Beowulf." Yells warren from the front door of the shop. The little bell tinkles as it closes.  
"Dude, do NOT call me that." I say as he and Harold stroll through the opened door marked 'employees only'. Warren is in his typical tight band shirt and skinny jeans. Harold has his hair tied back in a bandana and wears his favorite leather jacket. His only leather jacket. I think it's his only jacket actually. I've never seen him wear anything else.  
"Wow, Bettie, nice job opening today. I didn't expect you to be here." Says Harold, walks over to the coffee machine and pouring himself a mug. He drinks it black.  
"Why? I'm here every other Saturday, why is this one different?" I say.  
"Well, Nick and Zoey have SAT's today. I though you were going with them." Harold says, taking out the keys to his office and unlocking it.  
"Harold, that's only for kids trying to get into college." I say, adding half a cup or creamer and 6 sugars to my coffee.  
"Aren't you one of them?" his voice is muffled from within his office. He's behind is desk, looking for something in the drawers. Probably his cigarettes.  
No I say to myself. I don't say it out loud.  
Warren has escaped to the cashier podium. He yells in a false British accent over the loudspeaker: 'OI!! ATTENTION WORKERS OF HEROT, WE GOT OUT FIRST CUSTOMER AT OOOOOO 600! LOOK ALIVE PEOPLE!!' Sure enough, there's our first customer. An old man in suspenders and a striped polo opens the door smiling. He's probably here for some Liberace music. Harold comes out of his office, cigarette in hand.  
"I'm going out for a smoke" he says, just as warren rings up out first customer of the day.  
Wow, he bought 'London Calling' by The Clash. Good guess Warren.

By the time noon rolls around I am pretty exhausted from my shift. I have gotten nothing but irate customers searching for lil' Wayne and Kelly Clarkson in the wrong sections all day. Honestly, does anyone listen to good music anymore?  
"Hi, how much does this Linkin Park CD cost?"  
I guess not.  
This comment comes from a girl who looks about middle school age in way too much eye liner and lip gloss. I bet she lives at Hot Topic.  
"Its on the back kid." I say, trying not to sound annoyed. She scoffs and turns to her giggling friends who sulk off into the screamo section. Where is Warren? He supposed to take off so I can go to lunch (which basically means 'so I can go in the back and listen to 'the bird and the bee' and munch on cheetos while drawing the nearest cute guy.)  
Just I as I think about him, he appears to my right.  
"Ready to jump ship, mon capitan?" he asks, a sly smile on his face.  
"Where have you been?" I say, unlocking the cash register and taking out my card and drawer.  
"With Gigi." He purrs. Sly smile explained.  
"You know he's a criminal right? He worse than Zoey and Nick put together." I only know this because he used to live in the apartment next to mine. Every night he would come home with his hooligan friend's wasted or high, with their stolen goods from various Wal-Marts. He only moved because the police found out where he was living and he had to take up residence else where. No doubt he's still on the run from the fuzz. "And He's only after one thing" I add as an after though.  
"Well that would explain him stealing my heart." Warren says, ignoring that last part as he giggles like a school girl.  
"Dude. The BAD kind of criminal. The one that hurts people." I say, trying not to gag from that comment.  
"You know Beowulf" he makes sure to use my last name in an attempt to intimidate me. "not all criminals are bad. Some don't even want to be, they just can't help it." This, in Warrenish, means: 'I love you, but stay out of my business.'  
I roll my eyes and save the conversation with a joke. Warren kisses my forehead quickly and puts his empty drawer and key into the register.  
"That's my Bettie. Go have lunch now, I'll man the fort."  
I take my stuff in the back of the employee's only door. Harold takes my drawer and begins to count the money in it. He's almost emptied his pack of cigarettes. He knows I'm staying for lunch. I always do. I grab my cheetos and go out the door and into the store again. I take a seat by the wall next to the jazz music and wait until some catches my eye. I like my subjects to be interesting.  
As I look around, I take in the store. It's a pretty big place. Herot has an upstairs balcony level for the listening booths (which are just old red telephone booths with headphones and a stereo that lets the customer preview their musical selections.). The ground floor, where I am, is where all the racks of music are. In the middle when you first walk in is the hit lists, and surrounding the walls are the assorted genres. Rock. Classical. Heavy Metal. Soundscapes. Screamo. Grunge. Rap. Classic Rock. Jazz. You name it, we got it. At the front podium, where Warren stands now helping customers, is the cash register, the loud speaker, micro phone, and assorted musical do-dads. CD players and headphones mostly adorn the podium racks. There is some gum up there too.  
I 'm still trying to spot someone interesting through the mild crowd in the store, when someone finally catches my eye. He's moving a little too slowly to be ignored. He's tall, with light brown hair and highlights, and from what I can see at this distance, has gray eyes. He's wearing a 'KEANE' hoodie. He obviously has good taste in music. He has snake bite piercings, and tan skin. He looks Hawaiian if I could stab a guess. He's definitely not what I would call buff, but not skinny either. He's probably around my weight, give or take a few pounds. He's pretty tall, so he might be able to hide it easier. He's headed to the classical music section in the corner.  
He's perfect.  
I mount my sketch book on my knee, poised for action. He's beautiful, in a tragic kind of way. He looks poor, judging by the non-manufactured rips in his washed out jeans. The shirt leaking from under his hoodie is faded and frayed at the edges. His shoes are old and muddy, with a hole at the toe of one of them. This just makes him more interesting. The down trod Romeo.  
He's in the classical music corner. That just adds to his coolness. Any guy who can listen to Mozart and Beethoven is obviously intelligent and worth talking to in my book. He moves for the contemporary classical instead. Still good.  
I have a good chunk of his body sketched out from head down. The head is always the most fun. I'm roughly sketching the curve of his back when I look up and noticed his hand moving nervously. He's fingering random CD's, briefly stealing glances of the area around him and –oh damn– puts the CD's in the pocket. Why do ALL the people I find interest in always end up being hardened criminals? Jeez.  
I get up from my spot and sneak into the employee's room.  
"Hey Harold, we got a shoplifter in classical music."  
Harold looks up and smiles, almost bursting with glee. He loves shoplifters.  
"Oh good. I'm bored to tears. I've counted your drawer 3 times already. Good haul by the way." He says, putting out a cigarette in an ash tray. "You stall him. Ill call the man." He says.  
"do…we have to? He's only stolen a few things of classical music" I lie. He's stolen about 4 already, no doubt stealing more. Truth is…I'm kind of attached to him now.  
"Now what would Mr. Johann Bach think of you if he heard that?" Harold says with a gleam in his eye. "His music, more than anything else we have in this store, is worth protecting."  
"Wow boss. Will do." I say, halfway out the door and on my way to the classical music section.  
"Nice section there." I say to the guy. He's got the 2003 version of 'Peter Pan' soundtrack in his hands. Its one of my favorites. He looks like a deer caught in headlights right now. He freezes, stumbles, and drops the CD. He doesn't do this often apparently.  
"I…I…" He's been caught. I decide to make him relax a little.  
"Don't worry. I'm not telling. Its not like anyone is ever going to buy anything in this section." I lie.  
"I…what?"  
"Yeah. Your off the hook."  
He looks at my skeptically. "Alright, what's the catch."  
I snatch the bait. "You have to talk to me."  
His eyes narrow, but there doesn't seem like an argument is coming, after he dissent say anything, I start the conversation.  
"I like your hoodie. KEANE is pretty boss." I say, shuffling my feet.  
It's like at the mere mention of them, he forgets that I'm a store employee and he's a shoplifter.  
"Dude, I know! They were the first band I actually ever liked. Its like no one knows who they are though." He says, smiling.  
"It's a shame really. They are pretty original and totally deserve more spotlight."  
"Definitely." He smiles

Within minutes we are both sitting Indian style on the floor, talking away. His name is Gaven. He likes underground indie too, but also 60's music and stuff from the 20's and 40's. He's actually not Hawaiian, but some from of Indian. He won't tell me what tribe. Maybe he doesn't know. He just turned 17a week before, and goes to a public school in the other side of town. His favorite band is a 3-way tie between 'Daft Punk', 'The Zombies", and 'The Postal Service.". He plays the keytar.  
In turn, I tell him who I am, and a few of my dirty little secrets. He's a beautiful stranger, and I am just a girl waiting to take a chance. When I tell him about my art he asks to see my sketches. I usually don't show them to anyone, but I hand them to him without question. He tells me I should go to college for it, and I tell him about my…fear of college.  
"But you should still go. You would be so awesome, think of the stuff you could do." He says, just as he turns to the page with him on it. He takes out a pen, and scribbles something on that page. I lean to see, but he closes it. "Read it later" he says. I comply.  
It's surprisingly easy to spill my life out to this complete stranger. It's like we've both forgotten where even in a record store. Where just in Bettie and Gaven land.  
After a moment of quiet, he breaks the silence. "So what's it like…to work in a record store?" he asks, looking at his feet.  
I think for a minute and reply. "Some sort of awesome. No one is here today, but when the whole crew is around, were a riot. Zoey, Nick, and Warren are probably the best and craziest friends you could ever work with."  
"That sounds…" He trails off. His face kind of hardens.  
"What?" I ask  
"Don't laugh, but…I've never had to guts to get a job before."  
I'm confidence is rising, and I decide to take a risk.  
"You could start here" my confidence isn't good enough to look him in the eye though.  
"I—really?" he says looking at me. I took the bait.  
"Dude, yeah! I could make you a button and everything!" I gesture to my name tag button.  
"Lets do it." He says, getting on his feet. He reach's a hand out for me. Touching his hand was so much better than I thought.  
I'm in complete lala land. I've only dated one guy in my whole life, and it ended pretty badly. I haven't had a crush since then. But this guy hit me like a big red fire truck. He was cute, and underground, and interesting. He even talked to me. He wants a job. How could this day be so awesome?  
I'm leading him to the back room, completely forgotten why I was actually sent out to stall him for. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear them. I hear the sirens in the distance, getting closer. I held out a tiny hope that he hadn't heard them too, but of course, I was wrong. He looked just as the rest of the customers heads bobbled to the glass windows as well. The cops were getting out of he car, when his head turned to me. More than anything, he looked hurt. He knew I had ratted him out, and now he just thought that the only reason I talked to him was to keep him here. The worst part was that it was kind of half true.  
In a quick and nervous movement, Gaven reached for the pockets of his hoodie, and before I knew it, metal, slightly headed from the warmth of his jacket, was pressed against my forehead.  
Just as the officers pushed the door open, I heard an ear splitting crack, just like a gunshot. I closed my eyes hard and flinched. I didn't even have time to scream.  
For a second, I thought I was dead. I could still hear, but I heard, that hearing was the last to go. Then again, I could still feel too. I was breathing. I opened my eyes.  
SCORE. I'm still alive.  
When I opened my eyes, Gaven looked just as confused as I was. He looked around for the source of the shot. The shot had been fired by a guy in the hit list section. Gaven stared at him, and the back at me. He gestured to the gun and mouthed 'blanks', and gave an apologetic face. He wasn't going to kill me. Just pretend to hold me hostage and get away. It was so easy to forgive him, it scared me.  
"Sir! Drop the gun and put your hand where we can see them!" Shouted the officer. The other officer nudged the first one and whispered something. "Gabriel Grendel, you are under arrest." Hey. I knew this guy. Like, I know know him. Gigi is the nick name that Warren likes to call him. Gabriel must be his real name. And I was right; he IS wanted by the fuzz.  
I looked at Warren at the front desk while he stares, awestruck, as his boyfriend is told that he is under arrest. That look pretty much tells me that Warren had nothing to do with this. He sucks at hiding his emotions. This is raw surprise.  
"Take ANY steps closer, and I'll shoot. Don't mess with me, I've got a mean shot." Gabe screams to the cops. He's got our backs to us. The cops don't move.  
I grab Gaven by his collar and pull him down. Gabe can't see us with his back turned to us, were in the hidden classical corner.  
"Gaven, we have to do something." I whisper to him. It's difficult, since the whole store is quiet. The police seem to be thinking of what to do. Why do they always send US the novices?  
"Like what man? He's got a gun." Gaven whispers back, surprisingly calm.  
"So do you." I murmur. He gets the idea.  
The officers are trying to talk Gabe down which is doing nothing but pissing Gabe off more. I swear, if they say anything else, he's going to pop a bullet off in someone's face. Gaven and I crawl to the section Gabe is at.  
In the movies this would be pretty cool, but in reality, the terror bursting inside of me is almost unbearable. I can hear my heart beat in my chest. It feels like my ribs are caving in. I steal a glace to Warren, who looks like he's about to cry. He's no help. I can see Harold peek from the blinds in the window to the employee room. He steals a small glance and slinks back into the employee room. I imagine him calling more police. That, and having another cigarette.  
Gaven and I slowly crawl to Gabe. I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm going to do. I'm making this plan up as I go along. Just as I try to calm myself down, I hear a loud bump.  
Damn you Gaven. For a moment he yelps in pain from hitting the record stand next to Gabe with his leg. Gabe turns around, lightening fast and in the next 3 seconds, many things happen at once.  
Gabe sees me first. I'm closer to him, at his feet, and aims his gun for me. For a moment time stops as I see him inching to pull the trigger. My brain instantly flashes the phrase 'I'm going to die' in bright red colors across my mind. My head goes blank. My heart seems to stop. Weirdly enough, no lifetime flashback ensues. Isn't that supposed to happen?  
A gun fly's from Gaven's direction and hits Gabe square in the jaw. Gaven is up, throwing hand still in midair. Gabe instantly points the gun towards him and pulls the trigger. I don't even see Gaven go down, but I hear a loud bump and a soft thud. He hit a stand on his way down. That's going to hurt when he comes to.  
But I don't have time to think about it. My mind, so suddenly clear from my near death experience, urges me to take my chance. Not even looking towards Gaven, I grab the record stand and give it a mighty pull. It topples over, taking Gabe(and my leg. Ouch.) with it. Suddenly from literally out of nowhere, I see Warren soar from the podium. He seems to fly. The next thing I know, his fist has landed right on Gabe's nose with a loud crack. I pull my leg from the stand and jam my foot right in the fork of Gabes legs. He gives a sharp moan, and stiffens. That should keep him down for a while.  
The cops, recovering from their stupor, run to Gabe, and cuff him. He's bleeding from the broken nose Warren so smartly gave him. He has an oddly pained expression from my kick. One cop drags him to the side of the window, while Warren helps me get my balance. My leg is aching SO bad. All I can mange to do is point in Gaven's direction. I can't speak. It just hit me; he might be hurt.  
I stumble over record stands to Gaven. The people around us are recovering from shock. A women is on her cell phone, frantically dialing numbers. A little boy is clinging to his surprised looking mom. The hot topic girls are all cowering in the screamo section. A man in dreads is looking at the ceiling (go figure.)  
Gaven is face down when we get to him. When I touch him, he moves slighty, as if coming to life. He turns over, and smiles at me.  
"He hit the jacket dude."  
Sure enough, there is a big black scorch mark in the sleeve on his jacket where the bullet burned through. His skin is burned a bit, and bleeding a little, but it isn't serious at all. The bullet lies on the floor, having dented the stolen CDs that fell out of Gaven's pocket.  
Before I can stop myself, I have my arms around him. Its one of those weird 'I couldn't control it' hugs. I'm just laughing. That stupid giggly laugh, like when you're recovering from being nervous. It's the kind of laugh that is unexplainable in the current situation and makes your chest quiver.  
Warren looks at us and then raises an eyebrow and smiles like an idiot. "Man, I'm a SO happy I didn't have to punch you. I was going to when Horthgar called me over my cell when she was 'stalling' you." He put the word 'stalling' in hand quotations. Just like him to be funny at a time like this.  
"Yeah, stalling. You know, either you're a good actress, or a bad staller." Gaven says turning to me. I honestly think it's the later, but he seems to have forgiven me. Suddenly, it doesn't matter.  
"Thanks for having my back warren." I say, absentmindedly.  
When warren only smiles, I take it as a 'your welcome'. I fill the silence.  
"Hey, do you know if we have any job openings?" I ask, letting go of Gaven's neck as more late cops speed to the curb outside. They are always late to this side of town.

In the end, Gaven still had to be arrested. He had a concealed weapon without a license, even though it saved the day. We didn't even mention the stolen CD's. After all, they were damaged goods now, he could just have them. The cop said that since he was still a minor, there wasn't much they could do to him. They just had to take him downtown by the book.  
While Mr. Harold Horothgar talked to the police and the paramedics (once they were done bandaging up Gaven), and Warren Wiglaf happily talked to reporters outside, I ran to the back and got my button maker.  
They had Gaven in cuffs, which were procedure, but the cops were softies, and allowed him to sit on the fallen stand and wait to be taken to the station instead of being hoisted in the cop car. While he waited, I sat with him, and drew out his name tag and pressed it into a button. The nametag read: Gaven: shoplifter and store employee. It was pretty funny. When I tried to pin it on his chest, he moved away.  
"You keep it. Until I get back." He said.  
"Will you be back?" I asked.  
"Yeah." He said. He leaned over awkwardly towards me and planted a slight kiss on my cheek. I could feel my skin go red hot. I couldn't say a word.  
"OI! No canoodling over there you two." Warren was back. The reporters must be bored with him. "Remember Bettie, he's a hardened criminal and he's only after one thing."  
"oh, and what would that be?" I ask, trying to control my blushing cheeks. Gaven is laughing at me.  
"CD's" Warren replies, sitting with us. We all just laugh at him.

After Gaven is gone, being carted off in the last cop car, the stands are back up, the reporters are still outside, and Harold is calling it a day and closing early after all the excitement, I sit and pack up my things. Warren is taking in the cash register drawers. He's already called Zoey and Nick, so they know not to come. Harold is out back, locking everything up, so I'm in the employee room, alone.  
I sit in a chair and open my sketch book to the page Gaven wrote on.

_Your going to college even if I have to drag you there myself. Have fun kicking and screaming._

_- Gaven (with a G)_

I smile, grab my stuff, and walk out the door. After spilling my secrets to a random boy, taking down a wanted criminal, and getting an unexpected kiss from a beautiful stranger, college doesn't seem so hard anymore. Herot is safe for just one more day

…At least until Gaven with a G gets back anyway.

* * *

OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD THAT WAS HILARIOUS

HE PULLS A GUN ON HER

AND SHE **FORGIVES** HIM

oh god I'm embarrassed that I only wrote this a year ago.


End file.
